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One of the perks of my old job in New York was that I was given a free subscription to the New York Times. Well, kinda: I arrived at least an hour before anyone else, so I had plenty of time to make coffee and peruse the paper we received at the office before anyone else showed up to snatch the Arts section.

One day I was sitting at my desk, gettin’ my buzz on, skimming the news, and there, buried in the belly of the A section, was a tiny, one column by one column-inch piece that said, in essence, “We’ve been hearing these crazy rumors that 200,000 folks have been killed in some kind of fighting in Rwanda. As soon as we find Rwanda on the map, we’ll send someone to investigate.”

It wasn’t necessarily the brevity of the piece that bothered me–I mean, who in their right mind would be in Rwanda to report the story accurately? The Christiane Amanpour’s of the world are stationed somewhere else.

Nor was it a question of placement; if you don’t have much in the way of details, why would you put a story on the front page?

I guess I was more disturbed by the allusion to such a massive tragedy. I was tantalized, horrified, whatever, but the paper couldn’t provide me with any details to understand what happened. It was thoroughly creepy and not a little coy.

Today, it happened again. Yeah, it’s on the front page of the website, but look at the size of the piece. What can that possibly tell me?

Maybe I’m spoiled by CNN. Maybe I need images and human-interest stories to appreciate the news. Maybe by giving me an understanding of the events, those kinds of things provide closure so I can turn off the set and think about watering my plants.

I know it’s stating the obvious, but still.

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I understand that given the volatility of the stock market these days, real estate is a relatively solid investment, but this may be going a bit too far (literally and otherwise).

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I love you, too, boyfriend. I wish I had more time to write wonderful things about you, but I’ve gotta run, and I can’t take you with me ’cause the place I’m going scares the mother lovin’ shit out of you…

Much love,

Rico

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I think I’ve inadvertently helped boot someone out of the military. A buddy of mine from high school found this website not long ago, and he kindly put a link to it on his homepage. Of course, now the brass are trying to discharge my friend because they think he’s gay. In their straight and narrow minds, there are certain things “normal guys” don’t look at–namely, Vogue (in any of its linguistic forms), other wangs, and websites run by gay men. Now that the war’s essentially over, I guess the whole “stop loss” project is moot.

It’s a good thing I don’t have to worry such ocular faux pas, or I’d never get to peruse my boyfriend’s brand (monkey) spanking new Penis Blog Project.

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Answer the following multiple-choice question.

Today is:

___ (a) My friend Lesley’s 30-somethingth birthday.

___ (b) The feast day for several uninteresting saints.

___ (c) Tax day.

If you answered “a,” you’re obviously a close, personal friend, and I haven’t heard from you in months. Drop me a line and send Lesley a gift. Now.

If you answered “b,” you’re obviously a devout papist. Move to north Mississippi and attend tent revivals until you feel an affinity for Protestantism. Celebrate your new-found freedom by marrying your cousin or sodomizing an over-ripe piece of fruit (e.g. a week-old watermelon, not Nathan Lane before his morning shower).

If you answered “c,” you’re obviously the sort of anal-retentive fopdoodle who gets anxious when things aren’t done in a timely fashion. Do us all a favor: fake an illness at work, dump your numerous projects in someone else’s lap, go home, guzzle a 12-pack in the bedroom while listening to Aldo Nova (just that one album) cranked up to ten on the stereo, then pass out in the hammock out back.

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It’s springtime in NOLA, but it feels like winter.

I’m crawling on carpet to hook up a printer.

I should go to lunch but I’ve no time for it,

Je voudrais a break from this pigfucking shit.

If only Julie Andrews’ voice wasn’t kaput, I’d have a new diddy for her.

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You know, I’ve been thinking (no jokes, please). I’ve been thinking two things. The two things are these:

Sometimes, the only thing that keeps me going is the hope that one day I’ll have it all under control. I fantasize that eventually the renovations to the house will be finished, the garden will be dug and planted, all my work-related projects will either be complete or running themselves, Running With Scissors will take a long break between plays, and the boyfriend and I will go away on vacation. It’s Sisyphean, but I guess it’s just conceivable enough that my brain doesn’t stop to laugh itself silly.

New Orleans isn’t itself in winter. On my way to work this morning, I passed a girl in an old white pickup truck. She was the uber-Ninth Ward chick: a mess of dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, light eyes, wearing something with spaghetti straps. Probably in combat boots. Her windows were down and I could see the perspiration on her forehead and her two Catahoulas leaning out of the back, trying reach around the cab and lick her face. She’d obviously taken the dogs for a run down by the tracks and was headed home. Just looking at her I could tell what she sounded like, knew what she smelled like, knew what kind of cigarettes she smoked: she’s a fixture, like the praline ladies used to be, or the shrimpers are today, parked on the side of the road, selling fresh seafood by the pound. Or the vegetable man. It’s the sweat and the dog slobber and the rolled-down windows and everything about her that typify the heat and the humidity and the city. To me, seeing her is equivalent to seeing the crocus.

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places i’ve been

the Sigur Ros concertThis is going to sound really faggoty (then again, I’m a faggot, so go figure), but it was jaw-droppingly beautiful, a perfect synthesis of the visual and the sonic. Good lighting, great projections, and that voice–coming out of one who looks for all the world like any old bi-curious Ninth Ward boy. Even standing for two hours shoulder-to-shoulder in a House of Blues packed with people I didn’t know, I was stunned and weepy. And I wasn’t the only one: while they were playing, you could have heard a cigarette drop. No, it wasn’t the Matthew Barney show, or even the Barney Frank show, but it was still better than the icy-cool demeanor of Barney’s, and way better than Barney on Ice.

my backyardYes, I’ve been digging again. This time, I’m serious. I’ve rented a dumpster and everything. About six inches below the level of my last efforts, I found what looks to be an old well (an educated guess, based on info from the previous owner). I’ve found more detritus, too–mostly kitchen stuff, since the kitchen used to be in the back, separated from the main house.

On a related note, the cute cajun boy two doors down told me he remembers talking to Miss Dolly, the woman who lived in the house before the previous owner–and who Jonno’s been prone to see lately. He verified that Miss Dolly was a madam, but according to him, the brothel she ran wasn’t in the Quarter, it was our house. Apparently, she and her girls kept all the sailors coming through the Port of New Orleans very happy indeed. I wonder if I’ll find some old sheepskins in the course of my excavations….